Three

My father should always be appreciated. Be respected. Never questioned.

He makes a healthy living: owns one of the biggest, best-selling newspapers in South Africa. He can afford to shop without looking at the price tag (who looks at the price tag anyway?). And I can buy a hundred Gucci handbags just for fun.

"That's right, you should be thankful. Do you know how many kids don't have fathers?"

How could I forget? When I'm reminded every day how privileged I am.

"Yes, Papa."

He disappears down the hall.

I listen to his footsteps until I can't hear them anymore, push my heavy body out of the king-sized waterbed, slip on my shoes, and drag myself down the hall, up through the long flight of wooden stairs and into the biggest bathroom in the house.

The medicine cabinet above the sink has a mirrored door. Four white, dry towels hang near the tub.

Daniel must've been here last. He has a crazy obsession with the number four and has OCD.

Stepping into the shower, I feel the warmth wash over me as though I am roasting away at a roaring fire.

I take the soap, lather up, and begin to shave my legs, my arms, and my head. My shower routine. When I'm done, I look like an animal suffering from alopecia.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap one of the four purple towels around my body. Purple is Daniel's favourite colour. If Papa hadn't finally put his foot down, my twin's hair would still be purple (no matter how many times I tell Daniel purple hair would make him a poor fit for his aspiring career in teaching, he doesn't listen).

After I've dressed in a washed denim skirt that barely covers my ass, I shove the front of my sweater inside my skirt, slip on purple boots (a birthday gift from Daniel), and a silver lip ring. I don my niqab, which my father doesn't know I take off the second he drops me off at school and back on again before he picks me up.

My mother refused to wear anything other than a Hijab, which was why they always verbally attacked each other. She was Christian before she married dad and I think she secretly hated that not only did she have to change her religion, but also her name from Zama to Ahd. And since Ahd means pledge, it is very disturbing to think about my mother unknowingly pledging herself to him.

Maybe I shouldn't take things so literally.

Walking into the kitchen, I'm not surprised to find it in graveyard silence. My twin brother and father are sitting opposite each other, gracing the other with stolen glances. You'd think living together for the past seventeen years they'd be used to each other by now. But, nope. They are similar to strangers passing each other in the dark alley.

My brother has always tiptoed around my father (until recently), and so did Mama.

I'm no different.

"Clara," Daniel says. His voice drips with relief and he actually manages a soft smile. I store the look deep in my memory. He does not give up his perfect white smile often. Friendliness doesn't come naturally for him.

The reason why Daniel and I have Christian names when our parents aren't Christian is because Mama was firm, it was either we were given Muslim names but raised Christian or given Christian names and raised Muslim.

Or something like that.

Obviously, Papa chose the latter.

I nod and pull a chair near our father.

Papa is wearing a thobe. Underneath he's wearing the sewel. He's also wearing the ghutra. His is rectangular. A black rope band, fastens it in place. The bisht is a dressier men's cloak that he has donned over the thobe. He often wears it on special occasions such as weddings. He must be going to Saleb and Ishita's.

My brother is uncomfortable.

Papa is glaring at him over the thin rim of his expensive glasses.

Daniel should be wearing a Shalwar, and a kameez. And if it were up to dad, Daniel would also be wearing a turban. But this is no ordinary situation. My twin is wearing black jeans which are obviously too small even for his thin frame. The purple shirt he's wearing is unbuttoned all the way to the first ribcage. His eyebrows are in perfect shape, he draws his better than I ever could. He has pierced all his body parts, which includes his lip, ears, nose, tongue, belly, nipples, and eyebrows.

"Would you like some juice, Kadre?"

This is not a real question. It’s more of a command.

My father doesn't wait for an answer. He pours the hideous thing into a glass and pushes it over to me. It's a mixture of beetroot (hate it), water, apples, and oranges.

He waits until I've taken a sip to look away.

Papa then pushes a plate of buttermilk pancakes (as flat as my ass), eggs, and halal sausage towards me.

"Thanks, Papa," I say. Once I've taken a bite, chewed thirty-six times (Papa insists), gulped down, I continue, "It’s delicious. As always."

Papa smiles at me and it's easy to see why Mama had looked past the skin colour. His easy smile is warm, and welcoming with a promise of adventure.

"Come now," he says in a gruff voice.

My father gets embarrassed easily. Instead of returning my gaze, he squints up to the ceiling. While stroking his mustache.

I'm surprised I haven't seen a video of him on YouTube walking on water à la Christ Jesus.

"Eat up, kid."

My brother shakes his head and mutters to himself. He is eating pork ribs (Muslims shouldn't eat this), homemade roti and washing his breakfast down with a cold beer.

I wish I was as ballsy as him.

He has zero tolerance for mythism and no regard for flowery-talk.

He openly does pot, fucks the neighbours son (okay, I'm yet to confirm this) and brings home his weird girlfriend, Samantha. She tried to get me to do some ritual with her involving cats (lots of black cats which was super creepy), I bolted. Can't stand animals with fur nor am I particularly keen on gore. To believe in Satan is bad enough. To believe that you're the chosen one is on the other side of alienation.

I don't believe in any of that shit.

"How's work?" Papa asks me.